Chapitre 20: Chapter XX
The entrance hall of the Banque L'union Paris was crowded when Richard Crawford passed through its doors. James Guillory followed closely behind. Several ladies and three gentlemen were engaged in a fretful discussion, and one remarked loudly they had been waiting too long already. A line of clerks was writing behind the counter; the typewriters clicked and clacked with monotone persistence. Richard passed them and addressed the man at the booth in front of the way leading to the offices:
"Good day, I am in search of a Mr Paquard—?"
The clerk, without getting up, raised his head languidly towards Richard, squeezing his eyes as he regarded him over thick green-rimmed glasses. "He's not available."
Richard insisted he had important business.
"He is occupied," the clerk responded severely. And as he scratched his stained foul blond moustache, the clerk took of his glasses and pointed with them at the inlaid bracket clock at his elbow, "try again at seven," put them back and went on writing.
"Can't he spare time to see me?" Said Richard. "It's dreadfully important."
"He has no time; he is busy. Kindly come back later."
"Then I must trouble you to give him my name," Richard said, ire rising in his chest. "Tell Mr Paquard that Mr Crawford is here."
The clerk regarded him with the weariness of a man subjected to fits on a daily basis; and was being paid too less for it. He kept scrunching his nose as the glasses slipped down. "What was the name?"
"Crawford. Richard Crawford."
"And what is your business?"
"That's between me and Mr Paquard."
The clerk regarded him. Then nodded. And proceeded to pull his chair back, fumbling with his breeches, enquiring:
"And what was the name?"
"Crawford! Crawford, I tell you, man!"
He felt a hand close around his elbow. "Richard—" James said.
The clerk went off. Richard sighed in apprehension. He was sweating and passed a hand over his upper lip.
"Calm yourself." James threw a glance towards the people passing them, going about the hall. None of them regarded them with any interest.
Richard sneered. "If you're going to be telling me that for the rest of the afternoon, then you might as well not have come." Richard's palms were damp, and his heart was pounding. He didn't need James's perky little side comments at the moment.
"You asked me t—! Listen, Richard, I don't think you're in the right mind to be here," he glanced sideways, "whatever it is you're doing here."
"See here, Mr Crawford," a woman interrupted, in the half bored, half condescending tone of many a social worker, office grunt and mid-level manager since the dawn of recorded history. "I understand that you've been waiting on Mr Paquard, and that Mr Paquard is the one handeling your account, but," she withdrew a single document from the map she carried under her arm, and acted as if she was reading it, "but this is a different matter entirely. We simply cannot allow you to withdraw as the clearance lies with Mr and Mrs Crawford."
"No—," Richard's chest felt heavy. He rubbed his brow, and then his hand went back to making the tense, abrupt motions that accompanied his speech, "you're not listening— you're not listening to me, I need that allocation. That's my account."
"I do not report to Mr Pacquard or to you, Mr Crawford. I am a third-party administrator. Please contact Mr and Mrs Crawford," she said. Richard shook his head in unbelief. Her tone took on a note of long-suffering patience. "Until then— there's nothing I can do."
An intense ache erupted from in his heart, as if a wrench squeezed tighter and tighter around it.
"You alright?" James asked from somewhere behind him.
No, he wasn't. James should know that. Richard knew he had been in trouble, but he hadn't known it was this bad. Something was going to happen, and all there was now was this dreadful uncertainty. It was the first time Richard really felt fear, and it was intense and all-consuming. He breathed deeply, putting on an air of disinterest.
"Fine." He threw his arms in the air. "Fine!"
"Richard..."
He turned briskly, ready to vent his frustration. "What?"
James now held him steady by the elbow, "Richard, come on," he inclined his head towards the entrance, "let's get back to mine. I've got a Boudin to show you. And I still have that bottle of Pinot."
Richard drew back his arm and began walking towards the exit, then ire tightened its clutch on his mind, and he was turning back, only to be halted by James's hand on his chest. The young man grasped his sleeve with the other, a deeply concerned look in his eyes. James shook his head: "Richard, don't. Just don't. I'm not allowing—"
Richard shoved him off. He returned briskly to where the woman was now talking to the foul-moustached clerk. She startled as she saw him approach.
"Mr Crawford! In point of fact— you may not enter! Do not enter! I will call security! Mr Crawford!"
He passed her. James voice called after him:
"Richard! For god's sake, man!"
Ire had wound its clammy fingers in his chest. His mind was clouded. He paid James no notice. Passing the corner he fled through the hallway, towards the elevators. The blood drained from his face and crystallized in his veins. The logical side of his brain told him he was being childish, but this hurt.
"Mr Crawford!" The lady called. Several pairs of feet hurried along.
The gangway did not contain offices, as Richard had thought, although the doors must have led to dark studios in disuse, and ended on two elevators by which a group of four stood conversing in calm and pleasing sociability. One of them was addressed by a second, and Richard felt strangely elated at his good fortune of hearing Mr Paquard's name.
Richard hurried along, running two or three steps before continuing his pacing, and then speeding up again. He was smiling now. "Mr Paquard!" He called.
Nobody turned. Although a few pairs of eyes regarded him curiously and with keen disapprobation.
"Mr Paquard!" Richard tried again. He was so close. He saw the man himself turn his head slightly, his neck drawn back in a vest that seemed too small on his shoulders. Then a hand held Richard back. He turned in surprise and came eye to eye with James; regarding Richard with a mixture of humiliation and chagrin.
He discerned the far-off trod of the lady as well, accompanied by an attentive guard. He looked back at Mr Paquard, who's interest was divided between the unconventional newcomers, and was looking at Richard with not so much dislike as silent lassitude, as if he were an unfortunate inconvenience:
"Sir. Please return with the gentleman behind you," Mr Paquard said, almost whispered. And whilst his voice had a great hushed quality, he was perfectly understandable. "I do believe you have been made aware of my unavailability."
"Mr Pacquard, I beg you, my—"
The man rose a hand. "I know who you are. I spoke with your father not two minutes ago. Please note that I do not work for you, Mr Crawford. You are trespassing. I shall disregard this on account of my respect for your family," he gestured towards the guard, "now please return with the nice gentleman behind you."
Richard suddenly felt weak. He stumbled as he took a step, knees buckling. Nodding, as he didn't deem himself able to answer without screaming, Richard turned and walked back in the direction of the hall. He felt eyes glare at the back of his head and repressed a shudder. Holding his head high, he withdrew on unsure feet.
Shame, self-pity and stubbornness clashed within him. Richard was not a man in control of his emotions, and others had often berated him on his contentious nature.
The guard halted when they were halfway down the entrance hall, seemingly convinced Richard would leave without causing another scene. Only James was still following him.
He was to get some sort of income, Richard knew. His thoughts were rapid and tumultuous. It was the only way he might get his parents' respect back. He wouldn't beg. He would not beg.
"Mr Crawford! Mr Crawford!" A voice called. Richard threw them a glance. His heart restarted its gallop.
"Keep walking, James."
"Mr Crawford!" the man wore a beard, and resembled a government clerk in official uniform, with a sweaty handkerchief pressed between his fingers as he ventured to follow Richard and James with wide steps his legs were not made for— "Mr Crawford! I have your father for you!"
No. Not now. He didn't need to hear him. Richard did not know what he would do if he were to take that call. He might even apologise and beg in attempt to get his allocation back, and his misguided pride prevented him from having such a thing happen.
"Sycophants— grovellers— bowing and bending and kissing," Richard muttered.
"Mr Crawford!"
"Oh, fuck me gently." Richard said.
"Richard, just take the call." James said, greatly agitated. He appeared fretfully uncomfortable and although he was still following Richard, he halted in his step to look over his shoulder apologetically every few steps, so that he appeared to be walking sideways. "Richard, you ought to—"
"Mr Crawford! A moment!" The voice strained above the clatter of heels on marble.
Richard turned, walking backwards as he came to the door. And, spreading his arms wide, he said: "I'm busy!— can't you see that you namby!"
"Richard!" James cried.
"Oh— don't look so shocked, James. He's my father's, they're used to it. Shouldn't have become doormats."
And as much of a crass comment that was, Richard knew it to be true. If the test of a man is how he treats those he has power over, it is a test, Richard was convinced, his father failed. That man, whom people were so eager to please, was incapable of admitting any point of view but his own. He punished failure, and he did not accept anything less than — Richard swallowed, wiped his palms on his trousers and righted his coat with short, nervous tugs.
His father loved doing what he did. He saw his work as some kind of sacred calling. More important than any personal relationship. Maybe if he could be a better father, Richard would be a better son. But Richard Crawford was what he was because of him, for better or for worse.
On the streets, the air was humid. It seemed to Richard impossibly warm. He attempted to breath, although the air seemed keen on reaching only halfway his throat and refused to fill his lungs. Crawford gave up the fight with his coat, unbuttoning it as he walked on briskly. James followed:
"Do I drop you of at home?"
"No, you don't. I'll see you tonight at yours," Richard kept on walking and passed the Rouxel, "go, go," he kept on gesturing backwards, "go on, I'll see you tonight."
"Well— goodbye, then," James called. And something in the young man's voice made him look back. He had not often seen James bore him with such a look off utter disappointment, and dislike, but at that moment something changed in James's demeanour. Something warm and kind slipped away, and Richard mourned it, even though he could not say why. James regarded him as many saw him; much alike he knew himself: childish and entitled. With no regard for others. As if he was a petulant child who wouldn't stay in time-out. Some great, obnoxious inconvenience with tiresome issues James didn't have the time nor energy to deal with. Richard felt his shoulders rise. He turned on his heel and left, not looking back. He was alone. He was so alone. They'd walked that road so many times, in pleasant conversation or chasing each other down the sidewalk with retorts so the other couldn't have the last word, but rarely had Richard made the walk in silence. At least the rain had let up.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone